


Silk, Steel, and Freedom of Movement

by halcyon_autumn



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dancer Ingrid, Gen, Ingrid and Dorothea friendship, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-Time Skip, This piece doesn't focus on the sexism, White Heron Cup (Fire Emblem), but that tension hovers in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon_autumn/pseuds/halcyon_autumn
Summary: Ingrid closed her eyes. It was...easier to admit this if she didn’t have to look at Dorothea’s face. “I’m bad at everything that goes into being a dancer. Dancing, obviously, but the hair, the makeup the - the femininity. And now even my professor, who I thought valued me as a warrior, wants me to be...a girl.”A character study on Ingrid, the dancer class, and what it means to be a woman in Faerghus.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 33
Kudos: 43





	Silk, Steel, and Freedom of Movement

Ingrid looked over the gentle silken fabric, golden embroidery, and pearly white tassels of the dancer’s uniform. Her first thought, stupidly, was _how on earth am I going to wear my armor over this_ before she remembered that armor would defeat the entire purpose. 

She’d had a wild hope that the professor would see her holding this elegant outfit and suddenly come to their senses. Annette could be their house champion, or perhaps Mercedes or Sylvain. Goddess, even _Felix_ would be a better choice. He’d be livid, but he knew swordplay better than anyone else in their class. At least there were tactical advantages to picking him. 

But Ingrid’s last hope for mercy dissipated as the Professor turned to her. “This is the sort of thing you’ll be wearing. Any concerns, Ingrid?”

She sighed and tried to accept her fate as gracefully as she could. “Does it come in green?”

***

After Glenn’s death, her father had stretched the family budget as far as it would go and signed her up for a single month of dancing lessons. “You’ll need this,” he’d said, and asking for an explanation had just made him look worn and sad. So she’d obediently stumbled through a month's worth of lessons before climbing back onto a horse and running wild on the grassy plains of Galatea. Later, she realized her father was trying to prepare her to find a new fiance.

It hadn’t worked. 

Those lessons helped a little bit now; she at least knew how to keep time to the music that played during her lesson with the professor. But she felt far more self-conscious than she had at fourteen, especially when some of her classmates stopped by to watch. Her upper thighs were glaringly bare, and she couldn’t stop thinking about how every inhale made her collarbone press against the single strap of her outfit. Her classmates were perfectly decent; even Sylvain avoided making any lewd comments (he did open his mouth once, but Mercedes and Annette shot him such murderous glares that he snapped it shut). There was no reason for her to be nervous.

But she was. Every movement made her more aware of the way her body fit together, and every twirl of silk was a reminder of how much of her body _wasn’t_ covered. No matter how she tried, she felt like a child playing dress. Every move seemed awkward and stiff. Ingrid had built herself for strength and speed. Now she suddenly needed gracefulness, and there was none to be had. 

“That’s why we’re practicing,” the Professor said when Ingrid voiced her concern. They seemed unperturbed that she was stumbling her way through the choreography. Hilda and Dorothea were practicing for the dancer competition too, but Ingrid was confident that they weren’t having this much trouble.

Her classmates clapped politely when she was done, and Ingrid hurried to the dormitories to change. Back in her own space, she stripped the unfamiliar silks off and pulled her uniform back on, taking solace in the familiar stiffness of the fabric. Her cast-off costume now pooled on the floor like a cast-off. With a sigh, she picked it up and smoothed the fabric so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

It wasn’t so much that she hated dancing really, or even the costume itself. The problem was - she couldn’t even quite explain what the problem was. She’d gone to her first ball at fifteen, gawky and in the middle of a growth spurt that left her dress both too tight and too loose, all in the wrong places. She’d stood in the middle of a glittering room, filled with girls her age who were as polished as the most well-made sword, their makeup and hair done with pinpoint accuracy. They all danced with a kind of gentle grace that Ingrid hadn’t even known existed; she’d never had eyes for anything but the graceful arc of a lance in her hand.

 _I’m bad at this,_ she realized, watching an entire generation of Faerghus’ noble girls navigate an entirely different world than the one she knew. _I’m bad at this and they’re all very, very good._

Makeup and dresses were too expensive for her family to spend much money on and, besides, Ingrid was indifferent to them. She didn’t hate them, but on the rare occasions she tried makeup, she just found her wishing she was reading or spending time at the training grounds instead. Her engagement to Glenn had spared her the need to learn any of the things Faerghus expected its women to know, and only now did she understand what an enormous gift Glenn had given her. Her family was quite literally praying for her to secure a husband while she attended the academy, and Ingrid had none of the skills that most - nearly all - noblewomen used to do that exact thing.

She looked at the dress again. It felt like a failure to wear it, a gorgeously made reminder of all the ways she was failing her family. She hung it up anyway and left for the training grounds.

***

She’d seen both Hilda and Dorothea practice. She fully expected Dorothea to wipe the floor with them all, but Hilda would still give a good showing. Her routine was surprisingly acrobatic, and her unbridled enthusiasm contrasted with Dorothea’s precise, graceful movements. Ingrid could only hope she would dance before them; her own awkward lurching might not be as noticeable if she went first.

Dorothea had even invited Ingrid to _practice_ with her, an act of mercy that embarrassed Ingrid so much she almost turned it down. Only the fear of embarrassing her house with a shameful performance made her accept; it would be nice to know there was at least _one_ group of people that she wasn’t letting down.

“I’m _so_ bad at this, Dorothea,” Ingrid said after forty-five exhausting minutes of what was ostensibly them both practicing and what was really just Dorothea giving her advice. 

“What, dancing?” Dorothea asked. “Isn’t that stunning professor of yours giving you lessons?”

“Sure, for all the good it’s doing.” Ingrid closed her eyes. It was...easier to admit this if she didn’t have to look at Dorothea’s face. “I’m bad at everything that goes into being a dancer. Dancing, obviously, but the hair, the makeup the - the femininity. And now even my professor, who I thought valued me as a warrior, wants me to be...a girl.”

Dorothea looked at her for a long moment, eyes sharper than she ever let most people see. “Sometimes I forget how deeply unhealthy your entire culture of nobility is. I really think I’ve got my head wrapped around it, and then a new horrible facet of it slaps me in the face on a lovely morning like today.” She sighed. “There’s more than one way to be a girl, just like there’s more than one way to be a dancer.”

 _Sure,_ Ingrid thought later that day, still considering Dorothea’s words as she made her way to the training grounds. There was more than one way to do both of those things. But she seemed incapable of discovering them.

At least she was good at _this_. Ingrid picked up one of the training lances, soothed by the familiar feel of it in her calloused hands. Maybe if she whacked a training dummy for a few hours, it would help her feel better. The grounds were empty except for Leonie, who was practicing archery, and Shamir. The mercenary was doing a proper warm-up, moving through basic sword stances to limber up her muscles. As Ingrid began her own warmups, she saw Shamir start moving through more complicated stances. There was an easy confidence in her every movement, a gracefulness in the way she wielded her weapon.

 _A gracefulness_ \- 

Ingrid froze midway through her stretch, eyes glued to Shamir. The position she took as she executed an absolutely perfect low strike wasn’t that different from one of the starting positions for a dance move that Dorothea had shown her. 

Ingrid swirled on her heel, shoved her practice lance back on its rack, and ran to her room. She was going to need privacy to test this theory. 

The next morning, she showed up to her lesson in her academy uniform. She still planned to wear the dancer’s silks, and she’d need to in order to finally get accustomed to the feel of it, but for now she was sticking with what she was comfortable with. “Professor,” she said. She fought down the urge to wring her hands. Her plan was good; it capitalized on her strengths and downplayed her weaknesses. Surely the professor would like it. “I have an idea of something we could try.”

When she said the idea out loud, the Professor’s face lit up like the morning sun.

***

“By the Saints, there’s a lot of people out there,” Hilda murmured, peeking out from behind the curtain to the ramshackle stage they’d built on one of the lawns. “You sure you’re going to be alright, Ingrid? I know this is new for you.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “That was a very good attempt to throw off my concentration.”

“Did it work?” Hilda asked.

Ingrid shook her head, and Hilda sighed. “Worth a try.”

Hilda had already danced, and Dorothea was currently on stage. Ingrid had enough sense not to watch her friend’s performance, even though she dearly wanted to; there was no way she wouldn’t psych herself out if she did. Instead she tried to focus on the rise and fall of her chest and the familiar weight of her lance. Her blond hair was loose for once, and she missed the familiar weight of her braid down her back. 

The audience went wild; Dorothea must have finished. “Your turn,” Hilda said. For all her attempts at sabotage earlier, the smile she gave Ingrid was genuine. “You practiced hard. I’m sure you’ll do good.”

“Thanks,” Ingrid said. She was momentarily touched by Hilda’s sincerity, but then the judges called her name and Ingrid was consumed by the thought that she’d rather gnaw off her own hands than set foot on that stage. 

“And, representing the Blue Lions House, we have Ingrid Galatea!”

Ingrid stepped out to thunderous cheers from her housemates. Sylvain was hollering absurdly, and tiny little Annette was bellowing as loudly as she could. Even Felix yelled a bit, clapping and stamping his feet to create extra noise. She grinned at them.

“Erm,” said Alois, one of the judges. “Miss Galatea, while competitors have done sword dances before, I notice you’re holding a lance.”

Ingrid raised her chin. “Yes. I noticed too.” A bit more sarcastic than she’d meant, but she was nervous.

“You’re aware that the traditional weapon for a dancer is a _sword,_ right?” From anyone else it would have sounded like mockery, but Alois seemed sincerely worried that she may have brought the wrong weapon. 

“I know,” she said. “I’m confident in my choice.”

Alois glanced at Shamir, who shrugged, and then turned back to the stage. “Well, if you’re sure, then let’s begin.”

Ingrid had a sudden desire to bolt from the stage, flee Garreg Mach, and live under an assumed name rather than what she was about to do. She battled the urge down and instead settled into her starting stance, tapping her foot to the beat she knew was about to start. The music came in, the strings soft over a loud drumbeat, and she saw her classmates startle. This music was based off of an old Faerghus folk song. Legend said Loog’s soldiers had sung as they marched into battle. She’d picked it for exactly that reason. 

_4, 3, 2, 1 -_

She screwed up immediately.

Her first move went too far, unbalancing her, nearly sending her to the floor. For an eons-long instant, she froze. She was going to humiliate herself, embarrass her classmates, completely fail because she’d never managed to learn the things her family needed her to learn - 

Her mind panicked. Her body corrected itself, easily, because this was the opening to one of the lance forms she’d learned when she was seven years old. She took her second step much shorter, and was perfectly in place to swing her lance in a wide arc on the third. It was a showy move, something she’d learned to impress her friends rather than for the battlefield. But her silks flared as she spun, and her hair swirled around her, and someone in the audience whooped. 

She snapped to a stop. There was a single beat of rest, and then the drum beat pulled her forward again. A short swirl to the left, and then Ingrid slashed her spear in what was really just a modified second position for lancework. But the rhythm of her movement elevated it to something new. It was especially dramatic as her silks swirled out and back in. The cool fabric was an ally, trying to keep up with her as she swung the lance again and let the weight of it guide her forward.

This was not Dorothea’s grace or Hilda’s joy. It was something more meditative, a story about a girl and the weapon in her hand, the thing she’d been able to rely on more than any man who’d come into her life. Glenn had died and her father could not save her from a marriage she didn’t want, but her lance always did what she asked. She hurled it upwards, watching it spin once, twice, and then catching it. Someone cheered, and Ingrid grinned to remember Glenn showing off that same trick and teaching it to her.

Now came the trickiest move. She hurled the lance again and flipped backwards, drawing a gasp from the crowd. It felt odd to kick her bare legs up for everyone to see. But she focused instead on the muscles she’d build in those legs, and how proud she was of the work she’d done.

And those muscles caught her at the end of the flip, launched her up on her toes to catch her lance for a second time and then send her in a controlled tumble to the floor. Tumbling was not so different from learning to fall and roll without hurting yourself, something every fighter had to know. lngrid kicked up at the end, knowing it would make her shirts and sashes flare out, then swung the lance again.

The audience fell away. There was only the movements of her body and the music pulling her forward. This was the eager dance partner she’d never been able to find at any party. Dancing was deliberate movement, and so was lancework, and as she moved Ingrid left a pattern as tight and flawless as the lace adorning the most beautiful ball gown. Her confidence was its own kind of grace.

Finally she reached the last movement and hurtled forward with one last swipe in a basic attack. For a moment she was only gloriously aware of her own body - her heaving chest, her sweat soaked hair, the familiar burn of exertion in her legs and arms. Then the rest of the world came into focus, and she saw a crowd of onlookers, their eyes wide.

There was silence for a moment. And then she heard Dorothea’s voice.

“Well, shit.”

The crowd exploded. Her classmates rushed the stage, throwing their arms around her and cheering. Alois yelled half heartedly for them to stop, and no one listened. Ingrid laughed as she stumbled from one hug to another, and glanced out to where the Professor was standing. As she watched, their lips twitched upwards into the barest hint of a smile. Even Dorothea was grinning at her.

The Blue Lions finally calmed down enough for the judges to announce the winner - and then burst into shouts again as Alois called Ingrid’s name. She gasped and then was dragged forward for another round of hugs. The dancer’s silks felt comforting rather than alienating now, and Ingrid felt that she belonged where she was - in these beautiful clothes, her friends arrayed around her, and a worn lance in her hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people deserve credit for helping me with this fic, which was very much a labor of love for me. 
> 
> Check out [this lovely fanart](https://twitter.com/eyes_410/status/1335953686346883072), which inspired me in the first place. 
> 
> [Saccharinesylph](https://twitter.com/saccharinesylph) told me her some of her lovely Ingrid meta, which laid much of the framework for this piece. And [Paperpenpal](https://twitter.com/paperpenpal) provided excellent feedback and the inspiration for the title. This fic is a million times better because she looked it over. And as always, much thanks to the Sylgrid discord who was incredibly supportive when I said "should I write a dancer Ingrid fic?"
> 
> [Follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/halcyon_autumn) for more Fire Emblem thoughts if you want!


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